“No, I . . .” Luis broke off again as the big bandit approached him, caught hold of his poncho in a bunched fist, lifted him and threw him bodily across the room, so that his body thudded on to that of the girl.
“El Matador, he always keep the money for himself. I, Alfredo, am tired of this. Tell me your powerful secret,
As he finished speaking, Alfredo drew a revolver from its holster on each hip and leveled both weapons. Luis breathing fast with fear, sweat releasing new odors from his filthy body, scrambled to the far side of the girl and cringed behind her. The bandit laughed and fired both guns, the bullets whining over the top of the shaking bodies to thud into the wall as the girl screamed and Luis whimpered.
“The money,
“Tell him, stupid,” the girl cried, trying desperately to wriggle free of Luis’ grip. But Luis found enormous strength in his terror and held her fast, an inadequate shield against the wrath of the big bandit. “He will kill us both.”
“Do as she says,” Alfredo shouted and squeezed the triggers. Then again, and again. Six bullets skimmed across the bed, the rush of air seeming to get closer to the flesh at each report.
“Your secret!” Alfredo yelled in fury and loosed off the last two bullets from each gun, aiming lower, so that they all thudded into the bed in front of the girl’s straining body, sending up a shower of feathers.
Snorting, the bandit hurled away the empty guns and moved towards the bed, drawing his knife. In the shooting and yelling nobody in the room had heard the thud of running footsteps on the stairs. Not until the thunderclap of the exploding blunderbuss filled the room, the oil lamp hung from the ceiling shattered and showered, did Alfredo halt his murderous movement. He turned his single eye towards the darkly glowering face of his leader and realization hit him like a blow in the stomach. He dropped the knife with a clatter and fell to his knees, his hands clasped in supplication as his eye sent out a silent plea.
“I was joking, El Matador,” he croaked, all signs of his drunkenness gone. “Having some fun with him and the girl.”
Matador’s mouth set into a grim line, and his eyes glinted. “And now we shall have some fun with you,” he said.
Edge had reached the top of the wall, was sweating freely from the exertion of the climb, his back and arms moving slowly, as if they were lead weights. He heard the gunfire from the house on the far side of the plaza and ignored it, thought it was probably part of some wild game with which the bandits were letting off steam. Here, in the hot shadows, it was quiet, only his own rasping breath disturbing the silence. At the end of his climb he rested, jammed ten feet above the ground with his back against the church and his feet planted firmly on to the wall. All he had to do now was drop his feet and push himself across the gap, hook his hands over the wall and haul himself up and over. But before he did this, he rested, closing his eyes against the bright sunlight, willing new strength into his arm muscles that would have to take the strain when he jumped.
“The gringo could hurt himself.”
Edge snapped open his eyes as a shadow fell across them and the soft words were spoken, found himself looking up at a bandit whose grinning face seemed a mile high as he stood upon the wall.
“I do this every morning,” Edge said with resignation. “Exercise to keep me fit.”
“I think you are not so fit, señor,” the bandit replied and swung his rifle, upside down, so that the butt crashed with force into the side of Edge’s legs.
Edge’s feet came away from the wall and he plunged to the ground, landed with a thud on his back to lay gasping for breath.
“No, not so fit,” the bandit said with a laugh. “Maybe you should take such exercise in the afternoon as well.”
